This paper presents a new theory of modal reasoning, i.e. reasoning about what may or may not be the case, and what must or must not be the case. It postulates that individuals construct models of the premises in which they make explicit only what is true. A conclusion is possible if it holds in at least one model, whereas it is necessary if it holds in all the models. The theory makes three predictions, which are corroborated experimentally. First, conclusions (...) correspond to the true, but not the false, components of possibilities. Second, there is a key interaction: it is easier to infer that a situation is possible as opposed to impossible, whereas it is easier to infer that a situation is not necessary as opposed to necessary. Third, individuals make systematic errors of omission and of commission. We contrast the theory with theories based on formal rules. (shrink)

Abstract“Lambeth Palace is my Washpot. Over Fulham have I cast my breeches.” So declared the novelist and secularist H. G. Wells in a letter to his mistress, Rebecca West, in May 1917. His claim was that, because of him, Britain was “full of theological discussion” and theological books were “selling like hot cakes”. He was lunching with liberal churchmen and dining with bishops.Certainly, the first of the books published during Wells’s short “religious period”, the novel Mr. Britling Sees It Through, (...) had sold very well on both sides of the Atlantic and made Wells financially secure. Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy (“Woodbine Willie”) wrote that, “Everyone ought to read Mr. H. G. Wells’s great novel, Mr. Britling Sees It Through. It is a gallant and illuminating attempt to state the question, and to answer it. His thought has brought him to a very real and living faith in God revealed in Jesus Christ, and has also brought relief to many troubled minds among the officers of the British Army.” Yet, Wells’s God was explicitly a finite God, and his theology was far from orthodox. How can we account for his boast and for the clerical affirmation which he certainly did receive?This article examines and re-evaluates previous accounts of the responses of clergy to Wells’s writing, correcting some narratives. It discusses the way in which many clergy used Mr. Britling as a means by which to engage in a populist way with the question of theodicy, and examines the letters which Wells received from several prominent clerics, locating their responses in the context of their own theological writings. This is shown to be key to understanding the reaction of writers such as Studdert Kennedy to Mr. Britling Sees It Through. Finally, an assessment is made of the veracity of Wells’s boasting to his mistress, concluding that his claims were somewhat exaggerated.“Lambeth Palace is my Washpot, Over Fulham have I cast my breeches.” Mit diesen Worten erklärte der literarisch außergewöhnlich erfolgreiche und entschieden säkular denkende, kirchenkritische Schriftsteller und Science-Fiction-Pionier Herbert George Wells seiner Geliebten, dass seinetwegen Großbritannien “full of theological discussion” sei. Nicht ohne Eitelkeit schrieb er es seinem im September 1916 mit Blick auf den Krieg geschriebenen und stark autobiographisch gefärbten Roman Mr. Britling Sees it Through von knapp 450 Seiten zu, dass theologische Bücher reißenden Absatz fänden. Auch war er stolz darauf, liberale Kleriker zum Lunch zu treffen und von Bischöfen zum abendlichen Dinner eingeladen zu werden.In einer kurzen Phase seines Lebens war – oder inszenierte sich – Wells als ein frommer, gläubiger Mensch. Sein damals veröffentlichter Roman Mr. Britling Sees It Through verkaufte sich sowohl in Nordamerika als auch im Heimatland so gut, dass der Autor nun definitiv finanziell gesichert war. Der anglikanische Priester und Dichter Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy, der im Ersten Weltkrieg Woodbine Willie genannt wurde, weil er verletzten und sterbenden Soldaten in den Phasen der Vorbereitung auf den Tod Woodbine-Zigaretten anbot, empfahl die Lektüre von Wells’ “great novel” Mr. Britling mit den Worten: “It is a gallant and illuminating attempt to state the question, and to answer it. His thought has brought him to a very real and living faith in God revealed in Jesus Christ, and has also brought relief to many troubled minds among the officers of the British Army.” Allerdings war H. G. Wells’ Gott ein durchaus endlicher Gott, und seine Theologie war alles andere als orthodox. Wie lassen sich dennoch seine evidente Prahlerei und die emphatische Zustimmung zu seinem Roman in den britischen Klerikereliten erklären?Im Aufsatz werden zunächst einige ältere Deutungen der Zustimmung führender Kleriker zu Wells’ Roman untersucht und einige der dabei leitenden Deutungsmuster kritisch infrage gestellt. Deutlich wird, dass nicht wenige anglikanische Geistliche Mr. Britling dazu nutzten, um höchst populistisch das umstrittene Theodizeeproblem anzusprechen. Auch werden die Briefe prominenter Geistlicher an Wells analysiert, mit Blick auf ihre eigenen Publikationen. Diese Reaktionen haben stark Studdert Kennedys Haltung zu Mr. Britling Sees It Through beeinflusst. Besonders aufrichtig war Wells mit Blick auf sich selbst allerdings nicht. Die Selbstinszenierung gegenüber seiner Geliebten war einfach nur peinliche Übertreibung. (shrink)

There is a sense, perhaps, in which our present topic is like Mrs. Harris, or snakes in Ireland, or the reigning King of Portugal—that is to say that there is no such thing. For if by communist one means simply a “ red,” it is at least permissible to argue that Moscow and Leningrad are places where there can be no ethics at all. In saying this I do not mean to refer to any particular actions whose object has been (...) to establish the dictatorship of the proletariat, or in other words the next immediate step in the policy of these communists. What Zinoviev and others of them say is that they are engaged in a war against all bourgeois administrations, and that, being at war, they are not bound to accept the rules of French duelling, i.e . any outworn conventions, whether these are called ethical or not. Since it is admitted, I suppose, by nearly every. (shrink)

It is the custom, nowadays, to say that “realism” is very dead indeed, and to speak of it invariably in the past tense, or only in the historical present. What happened, we are told, was that, during the first quarter of the twentieth century, two distinct bodies of men propounded either “naïf” or “new” realism. The naif realists followed Mr. G. E. Moore—to some extent and without his consent; and they were called naif because the masculine form of the adjective (...) expressed their rugged creed better than the more usual feminine form. (shrink)

Nobody should want to rid his mind of science, but why should science want to rid us of our minds? In the name of science, however, clever men have given their minds to that very enterprise, although no doubt with the explanation that they were only ridding us of what we had falsely thought to be our minds. Thus in the eighteenth century La Mettrie presented the thesis that man was a machine. In the nineteenth, Huxley tried to show that (...) we were conscious automata. In the twentieth, Mr. Hogben,1 among others, professes to deduce from Pavlov's2 experimental results that consciousness is a superstition, being only a misdescription of conditioned reflexes. I propose, then, to examine the modish form of this persistent doctrine. (shrink)

In A.J.P. XXXIII., pp. 426–435, Mr. A. C. Pearson attempted to prove that ὅТαѵ ‘not infrequently bears a causal signification … and that in such cases the temporal meaning is more or less evanescent, and sometimes entirely disappears.’ The use of ὅТαѵ where the verb refers to future time is not discussed, the purpose being ‘to establish that the classification which sums up the other occurrences of the construction as necessarily expressing “indefinite frequency” is incomplete; and that a rigorous insistence (...) on its universal applicability has vitiated the interpretation of numerous passages.’ In the question of ‘causal implication’ I am not particularly interested. It is useless to attempt to deny that our English since is a satisfactory translation of ὅТαѵ in many instances, though it is not, perhaps, an easy matter to state what is the exact force of since in such cases. As to ‘causal implication’ I shall merely point out that a cause, strictly speaking, precedes in time that of which it is the cause, whereas a ὅТε-clause properly defines a situation that is of the same time as the principal clause. The question I wish to raise is whether the implication of ‘indefinite frequency’ has disappeared so completely in certain passages as Mr. Pearson thinks it has. Some of his examples are very interesting. It is not easy to see repeated action in them, and we may admit that critics have not ‘seriously pondered the results which flow from their adherence to established convention.’ But has Mr. Pearson seriously pondered the results which flow from his own conclusions?' So far as I can see, he makes no distinction at all between cases of ὅТαѵ with the subjunctive, ‘where no other relation than that of causality appears to exist between the subordinate and principal clauses’ and cases of ‘causal’ ὅТε with the indicative. (shrink)

This was to have been a confutation. My intention was to rebut and for the record’s sake to correct certain fashionable errors concerning the life of Virginia Woolf. What could be more proper, and what, it has to be said, more tedious? If the defence of truth had remained my only objet, I should have left these words unwritten, or at least should have addressed them to a very small audience. But the pursuit of truth sent me back to my (...) sources, and there I found a story, in many ways sad, but also funny and certainly instructive. It seemed worth extracting this record of a friendship from the great mass of evidence in which it is embedded. I hope that the reader will agree with me in finding it interesting in itself but, just as Prince’s Hal’s “plain tale” is made livelier by being contrasted with Falstaff’s “eleven buckram men,” so too the simple facts are made more striking by the intentions of Virginia’s recent interpreters. Let me therefore begin with a quotation from one of them.Volume I [of Virginia Woolf’s Letters] has a rarely preserved portrait of a female artist in the making, love and work intensely intertwined in her relations with women who encouraged her to write, read, and think, and gave her the nourishment of womanly love and literary criticism, which she was to seek and find in female friendship all her life. Bloomsbury fades into insignificance as an “influence” next to the radiance of Woolf’s relationships with Margaret Llewelyn Davies, head of the Cooperative Working Women’s Guild, Janet Case, her Greek teacher, violet Dickinson, Madge Vaughan, and her aunt Caroline Stephen, the Quaker whom she called “Nun.”1These words were written by Professor Jane Marcus, a person of great charm and ability, whose opinions are, I understand, accepted by a multitude of admirers. In those articles by her which I have read, she hardly disguises her contempt for me as a biographer. But, painful though it is to have incurred the disdain of so influential a personage, it much be allowed that, if the influence of Virginia Woolf’s husband, her sister, and her closest friends “fades into insignificance” when compared with that of Miss Caroline Stephen and Mrs. W. W. Vaughan, then indeed I have gone sadly astray. Quentin Bell is the author of, among other works, Virginia Woolf: A Biography, Bloomsbury, Ruskin, and On Human Finery. His previous contributions to Critical Inquiry include “Art and the Elite” and “Bloomsbury and ‘the Vulgar Passions’ ”. (shrink)

Gunn told me once that he had gone on a picnic on Primrose Hill with Ted and Sylvia. What was she like? She seemed a very good mother, Thom said, recalling the picnic basket she had prepared, adding that famous people never seemed to behave characteristically when he met them. Although neither Gunn nor Plath could have known it, they would come to have something deeply personal in common. Gunn's mother was a suicide who left her body for her children (...) (in her case, two teenage sons) to find in the morning. His poem about it is called “The Gas-Poker.”Readers may ask whether we do not already know enough about Sylvia and Ted. The bite mark on his cheek where she drew blood the night they met, the cup of warm milk set out for her toddlers to find with her body in the morning. This detail—the cup of warm milk cooled to frigid temperatures during a night that was one of the coldest on record locally—is, for me, the hardest to forgive. But Clark, drawing on a vast reservoir of evidence and anecdote amassed over years, is able to construct a more nuanced impression of Plath than we have had before. There are missteps, as when Clark complains of Plath's “popular, clichéd image as the Marilyn Monroe of the literati.” No one who has ever heard the breathy voice of Monroe singing “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” and compared it to the plummy, matronly, decidedly upper-class voice Plath cultivated for the BBC can believe that any such cliché exists. Plath mythologized her own life, but Clark succeeds in weaving a tight fabric of minutiae that permits the reader to see what Plath was doing at almost any hour of any particular day. In this steady neutral light, she becomes more fully human. (shrink)

Terminally ill in 1776, Hume was relieved from anxieties over Smith's masterwork when it finally reached him on 1 April, and he gave it unstinted praise, though not without offering cogent criticism. The two‐part structure of WN is discussed in context. Books I and II are analytical and identify the principles, chiefly division of labour, which naturally lead to economic growth where the free‐market system, or something close to it, is adopted. Books III to V are historical and evaluative, focused (...) on what legislators, to whom the book is addressed, have done and should do to promote growth. This second part of WN assesses alternatives to the free‐market system, denouncing mercantilism's injudicious restraints and incentives, and Physiocracy's blindness to the benefits of industry and trade. Smith settles for some restrictions on individual economic freedom, to provide resources for society's chief needs identified as defence, justice, public works, and education, and he manifests grave concern about the mental torpor found in workers subjected to extensive division of labour. (shrink)

In this contribution we present and discuss an unpublished note of John Bell on the de Broglie’s Pilot Wave. The note is the result of the analysis of the scientific correspondence and other original documents made available by Mrs. Mary Bell, wife and colleague of John, performed form one of us (A.L.) in a PhD project devoted to the historical reconstruction of the scientific thought of John Bell and confirms the highly original character in theoretical research. Among (...) Bell’s original documents, a manuscript entitled “Notes for a history of the pilot wave” confirms that the Irish researcher considered central the idea of the pilot wave. We will present, moreover, a comparison between the unpublished note and the short writing published in 1988 in memory of de Broglie, that suggests that Bell had in mind to write a more elaborate work on this subject. Unfortunately, its sudden and untimely disappearance has put the end word to this project. (shrink)

The question I shall attempt to address in what follows is an essentially historical one, namely: Why did analytic philosophy emerge first in Cambridge, in the hands of G. E. Moore and Bertrand Russell, and as a direct consequence of their revolutionary rejection of the philosophical tenets that form the basis of British Idealism? And the answer that I shall try to defend is: it didn't. That is to say, the ‘analytic’ doctrines and methods which Moore and Russell embraced in (...) the very last years of the nineteenth century were not revolutionary, did not emerge first in Cambridge, were the creation of neither Russell nor Moore and cannot be explained by appeal to facts concerning British Idealism. The adoption of the doctrines and methods which characterised the earliest manifestations of British analytic philosophy are to be explained neither by reference to anything specifically British, nor by appeal to anything unproblematically philosophical. Or so I shall argue. (shrink)

Herr Royce ist doch ein bedeutender Denker und darf nur als solcher behandelt werden.("Royce is an important thinker, and may only be treated as such.")Scholars of pragmatism and of phenomenology have observed striking similarities between Josiah Royce and Edmund Husserl, foundational thinkers at the origins of two major philosophical movements whose effects are still strongly felt in the present day—Royce being considered a central founder of American pragmatic idealism, and Husserl of modern German phenomenology. Other scholars have noted striking similarities (...) between Royce's thought and that of the broader circle of phenomenology.2Can we discover in these relations definitive historical influences, rather than.. (shrink)

How do people make deductions? The orthodox view in psychology is that they use formal rules of inference like those of a “natural deduction” system.Deductionargues that their logical competence depends, not on formal rules, but on mental models. They construct models of the situation described by the premises, using their linguistic knowledge and their general knowledge. They try to formulate a conclusion based on these models that maintains semantic information, that expresses it parsimoniously, and that makes explicit something not directly (...) stated by any premise. They then test the validity of the conclusion by searching for alternative models that might refute the conclusion. The theory also resolves long-standing puzzles about reasoning, including how nonmonotonic reasoning occurs in daily life. The book reports experiments on all the main domains of deduction, including inferences based on prepositional connectives such as “if” and “or,” inferences based on relations such as “in the same place as,” inferences based on quantifiers such as “none,” “any,” and “only,” and metalogical inferences based on assertions about the true and the false. Where the two theories make opposite predictions, the results confirm the model theory and run counter to the formal rule theories. Without exception, all of the experiments corroborate the two main predictions of the model theory: inferences requiring only one model are easier than those requiring multiple models, and erroneous conclusions are usually the result of constructing only one of the possible models of the premises. (shrink)

In this paper a number of oppositions which have haunted mathematics and philosophy are described and analyzed. These include the Continuous and the Discrete, the One and the Many, the Finite and the Infinite, the Whole and the Part, and the Constant and the Variable.

The c‐myc proto‐oncogene is believed to be involved in the regulation of cell growth and differentiation. Deregulation of this gene, resulting in an inappropriate increase of gene product, can contribute to cancer formation. One of the ways in which the expression of the c‐myc gene can be deregulated is by the stabilization of the labile c‐myc mRNA. The rapid degradation of the c‐myc transcript appears to be mediated by at least two distinct regions in the mRNA. One lies in the (...) 3' untranslated region, and presumably consists of (A+U)‐rich sequences. The other lies in the C‐terminal part of the coding region and colocalizes with sequences encoding protein‐dimerization motifs. The exact mechanism by which the destabilizing elements function is not yet clear. Shortening of the poly(A) tail of the c‐myc message appears to precede degradation of the transcript. When translation is blocked, this shortening is slowed down and the mRNA is stabilized. This suggests that deadenylation is required before degradation of the mRNA body can take place. (shrink)

She was lying in the bed: had been lying there for some time, had indeed lost track of time, just lying there observing the progress of shadows across the wall, up the wall actually and then across the ceiling; watching the way the sheer white curtain, lifted every now and then by a sneaking finger of breeze, exposed brief glimpses of outside. Since she, narcotized, lacked the will to look at the clock (though she could hear it, very close by: (...) its relentless accusatory ticking), the room for her with its very white walls and very sharp corners, its terrain of familiar landmarks—the mirror; the walnut bureau, on which lay scattered the hairbrush in which a dark twist of hair was caught, the little yellow jewelry box with its peculiar surface like granulated sugar, decorated with small seashells, the book lying spread-eagled, open to page 119, the small lamp, its stiff, frilly shade with the plastic wrap still on; then too the wooden chair upon which she had thrown, possibly carelessly, expecting but then unable to hang up the following day, as was her usual habit, the blue shirt, the black slacks, and the taupe brassiere she had worn the last time she went out; the closet door, slightly ajar, with its glass knob glittering gemlike at certain times, when the beam struck it—this museum as it were of her last day before the pain began—had become for her a sundial upon which, as the shadows crept across, she read or rather inferred the passing of the day. Though she was not sure how long she had been lying there—how many days, in the bed. She had tried to count the days on the nubbles of the white bedspread or else tried to read the nubbles with her fingertips like braille or feel them like a sort of impasto forming pictures or patterns, fields forests mountain ranges, a long tapestry unwinding, but she was always losing her place, starting over without realizing she had started over. On the table beside the bed was the importuning clock, the glass of water, the empty bowl slick with the remains of the soup, another frilly lamp preserved in plastic, the bottle of pills, the framed black-and-white photo of a smiling white poodle in whose obsidian eyes the image of the photographer was reflected... and another, of a young woman in tennis shorts and a sweater, perched on the top rung of a wooden fence or gate, smiling, chest thrust preeningly forward: it may have been herself, in a past life, or it may not have been... the resemblance between the woman in the bed and the woman in the photo was uncertain... and at any rate she in the bed seldom looked at these objects, or, if she did, forgot them immediately and had to learn of them again. She was propped up on pillows, her long dark hair spread around in loops and glissandos: these she felt or rather intuited but had not seen in several days. Nor had she seen the neatly stitched incision or the disconcertingly stained bandage covering it: preferred not to: but nonetheless could not un-know that her chest had become a cage in which pain lived, if unseen. If she lay very still she might not feel it, or only in a small way: and she did lie still. Possibly she had just awakened: she had a sense of emerging from something, of rising up as if from underwater, her awareness enlarging beyond the ticking of the clock to the frisking curtain, the window with its square of light, the room her sundial, then to the house sensed but unseen around and beneath her, its uneasy inanimate creaks and shiftings, an echo suggesting size, distance, emptiness, but then too certain other, volitional sounds coming up from downstairs—footsteps, a cabinet opening and closing, a drawer pulled out on its runners, as if from a great, echoing distance. Who, she wondered, who...? But could not know. Outside the window a bird was singing, a car was passing in the street... And now certainly she was indeed awake, but all the same the decision was not volitional, possibly there was no decision at all, instead rather suddenly and unaccountably she found herself trying to rise, trying to get out of the bed despite the insistent pain and despite the great weight of her limbs, of each limb individually and of all four limbs collectively; she could not, she found, sit up in the bed where she had lain for who knew how many days now, but rather could only, like a turtle on its round hard back, attempt to roll, to swing herself, leveraging the great unaccountable weight of her legs, up onto the edge of the bed and off it. In her chest there was something like the grip of a hand or of a clamp that somebody had left inside her. Nonetheless, her robe. And now entering the long hallway, doors opening off either side, she could hear, from very far away, a small tinny buzzing that she recognized as music though without discerning, for she could not discern, either the voice or the tune: it was rather a small thread that she followed along the hall, where nobody was, to the staircase of dark wood which she began to descend, slowly and bent over from the pain and the weight and the great effort involved in moving these limbs which had at one time surely belonged to her but which seemed now to be somebody else's, so awkward were they, so unwilling. Though surely she too, once upon a time, had danced... Down and down she went, around the several turnings of the staircase (certainly it was farther than she remembered), passing, on one landing, a large framed photographic close-up of a golden cock-of-the-rock, with its resplendent crest like a half-wedge of orange, and a dark, bellicose eye... on the next landing, the photo of a girl in a little sealskin cap and tippet, hands hidden in a matching muff... on the next landing, in a recessed niche, a plaster bust of Queen Victoria with a chip out of the nose and several curls missing off the back of the head. Though the cock-of-the-rock reminded her of something (she wasn't sure what), she was sure she had seen none of these objects before... Nor had the staircase ever seemed so wide, so deep, so dark. Is this, she wondered, descending, really Ma's house? She clung to the fraying thread of music that was leading her down, emerging at last like a ghost into what was certainly Ma's capacious kitchen. A dark-haired woman uncannily like herself sat at the table barefoot, swinging her leg rhythmically to the music issuing from the transistor radio on the counter while sipping a glass of something yellow on ice and paging absorbedly through a Life magazine. At her elbow sat a bottle of golden liqueur in which a mysterious object—a bit of flowering branch, an antler of coral, possibly the efflorescent finger of a saint—was floating; on the cover of the magazine a model in a crescent hat gazed provocatively, while holding out her hands to display, on the right hand, a white glove with black polka dots, and on the left hand, a black glove with white stripes. Above the model's shoulder a caption read: News In Gloves.The sick woman hovered on the threshold; her doppelganger at the table did not look up, but, fully absorbed, continued obliviously paging and sipping.Maybe, thought the other, amazed, I really am invisible—The tableau persisted, until at last somebody (it was unclear who) said, I don't know how you can drink that stuff—Now the woman at the table did look up, jumped up in fact, dropping the magazine and crying, Rose! What are you doing down here? You shouldn't be out of bed, you silly!She flung herself at her sister, waving her hands and making small, solicitous noises and appearances of kissing.Ma'll never forgive you, the other said calmy, for breaking into her special bottle—Rose regarded the vessel, along with its enigmatic contents: then suddenly felt that the mysterious branch or wand or finger in the bottle had gotten lodged inside her, somewhere beneath her right breast; it was rotating, playing her ribcage like a harp.Oh Rose! cried the sister in a tone of anguish, who cares what Ma says! You need to go back to bed—let me help you—I'm all right Lucy! I'm all right! Though blanching slightly.Here, let me—Lucy took Rose around the waist and began to lead, or rather pilot, but instead of taking her up the stairs, was ushering her down.Lucy, what are you doing? It's so dark down here I can't see a thing—clinging tight, however, as they descended into what must have been the basement: though it could not be seen, but only smelled and heard. The mildew was characteristic, as was the aroma of fermenting apples. There was as well a soft, subtle scurrying, suggestive of unseen, inhabited corners.Subtly Lucy withdrew: Rose felt herself hovering, blind, above an abyss.The patient thrashed, panicking.I can't see! I can't see!Oh Rose! said Lucy, somewhat fed up. Just open your eyes then!The woman in the bed did: and found herself propped on pillows, her sister Lucy leaning over her with a spoonful of broth. The room was very bright; somewhere a bird was singing, or shouting, loudly.Oh Micheletto! Shut up Micheletto! You're bothering Rose! said Lucy crossly: but the canary, undaunted, continued its racket, leaping from perch to perch, hanging upside down from a bell, committing wild acrobatics on the swing, and regarding the patient, from behind the bars of its prison, with a darkly defiant jujube eye.I don't know how you can stand having him in here, Rose. He's so noisy.I like him.But not the soup evidently, from which the patient shrank with a scowl. Sister and spoon therefore subsided, one into a chair, the other into a bowl.I could take him out of here, if he's bothering you.No.The woman in the bed shut her eyes, easing back, if not disappearing, into the trailing vinelike thicket of her hair: turning inward, perhaps, to attend to the branch or wand or finger that was still plucking at her ribcage, playing a music more compelling even than that of Micheletto the canary. This, though, the sister could not allow.Joey called, Rose. Did you hear me? Joey called. He's so worried about you.Joey? A green glimmer between dark lashes.Don't tell me you've forgotten Joey!Lucy gestured to the photo on the bedside table, which was no longer that of a poodle but was, rather, of a curly-haired young man with a long, somewhat sanctimonious nose. If she was disappointed by the transformation, Rose was careful to conceal it.Course not. Don't be silly. How could I forget Joey?The patient spoke softly, slurring: that was the narcotic.He's awfully worried about you, Rose.Suddenly Lucy began to giggle. Rose, peering out from behind her thicket, saw her sister perched forward in her chair.D'you remember, Rose? You were so sick you threw up in the back seat of the convertible. Snickering now.I did not.You did.I didn't.Though in fact that night, with its wild ride of pain, was a blur to Rose: she recalled, vaguely, parking on the bluffs, seeing the lights of the town below, a smeared fistful of rhinestones flung at random along the silvery-black thread of the river: Joey, easing his arm around her shoulders: and the first mild, then abruptly definitive jabs just below and to the right of the breastbone... But then too, she thought she remembered gazing into the dark, empathetic eyes of a poodle... This, though comforting, was difficult to understand.Joey's been wonderful about it. He's not mad at all. Apparently the upholstery cleaned up great. He had the entire car detailed too. He said he's going to visit later. Isn't that nice? Isn't it? Rose, did you hear me?But the patient, lowering pale lids, had disappeared again.Rose? Rose?Yes Lucy, resurfacing, I heard you. ’S nice. But wondered whether her sister had always been so annoying. It was difficult to give this question the attention it deserved because of the ragged strumming, rising almost to the level of a pain, from somewhere deep inside, just beneath her right breast. So absorbing was this internal music that Rose found she could not resist the urge to sing along... which she did do, for an unknowable, perhaps immeasurable, period of time.Rose, the sister was saying, Rose. I think it's time for your pill.Lucy was leaning over her again, brow creased, this time with the pill in her hand, and the glass of water in which, somehow, certain stars had been contained: Rose consumed these along with the medicine.Now, Lucy said, I'll let you sleep. Hush! Micheletto! Hush! Rose is sleeping!But the canary, rocketing crazily, continued.Later, when Rose woke (or so it seemed), the sun had shifted considerably, the shadows moving around the sundial, or room, in such a manner that certain things loomed larger than they had before: the crucifix on the wall for example, and the little box on the bureau, the hairbrush with the curls of hair caught in it, the lampshade, the wooden chair in which Lucy was no longer sitting all cast monstrous elongated shadows, as if implying some significance they did not have. The white curtains, on the other hand, hung quite still now on the open window. Rose emerged slowly from a dream in which she and her sister were acting in a play Joey had written: they were seated side by side on stage, on a green velour couch, and Lucy, turning toward her, had very sincerely said, What's the pup, Rose? What's the pup? which made no sense at all: maybe Rose had misheard: in the dream she replied, over and over, What's the what? What's the what?, growing more and more annoyed, to which Lucy answered, every time, What's the pup? until at last Rose awakened very cross. And now she lay, propped on pillows, becoming aware once more of the pain she had forgotten while dreaming, and of Micheletto's song. What's the what? thought Rose, what's the what? Until suddenly she realized she was saying it out loud. And then at last the dream truly fell away, and she realized her pain felt very near, but that Micheletto's singing had grown very distant: no matter how she squinted she could not see the canary in his cage, though she could hear the distant singing: until at last she realized that the cage was empty, and that Micheletto was singing from somewhere else. Lucy must have taken Micheletto away, Rose thought, bitterly. She wanted to do something about it, get Micheletto back, he was her friend, her only friend, but she didn't do anything; she lay perfectly still, listening to the familiar fugues and arias, which were emanating, it seemed, from some other room, or other dimension: as if Micheletto had become a ghost, or phantasm. I can hear you, Micheletto, she thought, or said, but I can't see you... In response (if it was a response), the song, with its characteristic trills and arabesques, seemed to draw nearer, though a barrier remained, the voice sounded muffled, as if Micheletto were smothered under a bolster, or stuffed in a sack. Rose's eyes probed the room, rummaged the corners, explored the elongated and vaguely palpitating shadows, searching for Micheletto, though her body remained motionless, paralyzed, as if still dreaming. Micheletto, where are you? Rose sang, or said, to herself, or to the room: this was unclear, though the reply when it came was startlingly distinct, a spirited coloratura pronounced right at her elbow, or so it seemed: though Micheletto himself, as a small, yellow, feathered entity, continued imperceptible. Rose lay rigid like a mummy, wrapped in sheets, propped on pillows, anointed with juniper, sealed with beeswax... I too am an artifact, she thought, of my former self... Micheletto however spoke back, with asperity, demanding some solution, some action on her part—I can't, Micheletto, she said, it's not possible—taking in with desperate eyes the room around her, lingering especially over the crucifix with its gargantuan shadow, the glass of water on the bedside table whose stars she had consumed (she could feel them now, sparking inside her, the sharp edges lodged beneath her sternum), the photo of the white poodle, with its gentle dark eyes and sympathetic smile: none of these however offering any help, or advice... I'm sorry, Micheletto, I can't—The bird, however, was inexorable.Therefore Rose as she had done earlier rolled herself to the edge of the bed, using the weight of her legs to lever herself up until she sat, curled wormlike but facing the window: through which she could see the canary perched outside, on the slope of the roof.Oh Micheletto!, said Rose, dismayed, how did you get out there?Certainly the canary did reply, but his words, conveyed in a series of runes, were eclipsed by a delivery truck passing in the street below.What, Micheletto? What the—what?She couldn't hear him, and maybe it didn't matter: out was out, after all: though the closed door of the cage and the firmly lowered window screen rendered the mode of escape enigmatic... possibly even supernatural... Unless Lucy, Rose thought, conjuring an image, masticating upon it in her mind with the satisfaction that comes of blaming, till at last she struck the gristle: which was, why would Lucy? Since Lucy also loved Micheletto... And anyway what mattered now was not the escape, but the rescue... Micheletto, outside the window, made further cryptic remarks conveying urgency, possibly even gruff impatience.All right, all right—Sinking down slowly tentatively painstakingly from the edge of the bed to the floor Rose inched on her buttocks to the window and with some effort and tugging of incision managed to raise the screen, allowing into the bedroom a greater blueness, along with several mosquitoes. Inside her chest the wand of coral was cryptically turning, though what she felt was not exactly pain: and as for the disconcertingly stained bandage, of this she continued willfully unaware.Micheletto! Micheletto!The canary, bright on black shingles, cocked its head. There was a throb of a sort, Rose thought, in the bright black eye. But Micheletto did not come toward. She leaned out, to gesture.Here, Micheletto! Here!The small blond figure hopped along the ridgeline of the roof.Micheletto! Micheletto!Though the canary did not come, Rose suddenly found herself, or the upper half of herself at least, partially extended through the open window. If only I had a thistle to offer him, she thought, or some suet... But she had only herself, dangling, and, either in eagerness or desperation (this was unclear), extending further out and then down, palms first, onto the surprising rough warmth of the shingles.Micheletto! Micheletto!She could no longer see him, but took hope from a small, eager scrabbling in the gutter.Oh, Micheletto... Suddenly she found she was curled up right beside the dormer, on the black shingled slope of the roof. Looking down she could see the cracked concrete walk, and, in the sullen green shadow of the house, Ma's small garden, the tomatoes and zucchini quivering on their stakes, the brown pendulous faces of the sunflowers as they contrived, unsuccessfully, to look the other way. In the upstairs bathroom in the house next door, the neighbor Mrs. Benedetti, squatting in her housecoat of dusty rose pattern, gave a quick, scandalized look, and abruptly drew down the shade... Well, thought Rose, refusing to feel bad about it, you can't please everyone... Lulled by the warmth of the shingles, she had stretched out tentatively upon the somewhat tacky surface. It was impossible to lie comfortably on her right side—she had been wounded on the right side, damaged, something in her had been breached, she'd been ripped up, she couldn't remember how—or on her left either for that matter, because of the stars gyrating relentlessly inside her; nonetheless she did lie somehow, along the slope of the roof, with her head turned toward the gutter. Above her was a blue dome upon which a pink line of cloud languorously reclined: it was beautiful: but looking made her feel dizzy. Micheletto! Micheletto! she called. The response was not immediate, giving her time to notice, in the lee of the dormer, an abandoned hammer and a roll of tape evidently left behind by some workman, who knew when... Nobody cleans up anymore, thought Rose. Ma, she thought, wouldn't like it at all, if she knew. But Ma would never know, because she, Rose, would never tell her. Now resumed the scrabbling in the gutter. Micheletto! Is that you, Micheletto? Though there was no reply, the scrabbling went on, until, suddenly, a bright yellow head with a mischievous, berry-bright eye popped up out of the drainpipe. Micheletto looked in her direction and spoke with some severity... Well, it's not my fault, is it, Rose said, bitterly. Just look at all I've done for you already, all this for your sake—The bright eye bulged. There was a volley of expostulation.But I can't! Yes of course I love you, I just can't! It's... physically impossible! Her voice dropped to a whisper. I think there's something wrong with me, Micheletto... Then Rose fell silent. She had become confused, trying to remember what was wrong. Micheletto, while not unsympathetic, did not cease his complaining: the yellow head turned furiously round and round in the drainpipe, there was a sound of scrabbling feet as he espoused various arguments, interspersed with moments of fugue and passages of overripe bel canto. Rose lay back on the slope of the roof so that her long dark hair fell in rivulets over the gutter... If she stretched out her arm from there, she could almost, but not quite, reach the drainpipe.All right, she said somewhat feebly, I'll try—Meanwhile something was going on down below. There was a clamor of car doors and tires; somebody was speaking. Rose, Rose! What are you doing up there! Oh Rose! Joey, come quick—Rose is up on the roof!It was very silly of Lucy, Rose thought dreamily as she reached: certainly I'll wake up in bed in a minute. Leaning back, she saw the line of pink recumbent upon the cerulean dome of the sky: and heard, from somewhere in the distance, the sound of a poodle barking. (shrink)

In a much cited phrase in the famous English ‘Child B’ case, Mr Justice Laws intimated that in life and death cases of scarce resources it is not sufficient for health care decision-makers to ‘toll the bell of tight resources’: they must also explain the system of priorities they are using. Although overturned in the Court of Appeal, the important question remains of the extent to which health-care decision-makers have a duty to give reasons for their decisions. In this (...) paper, I examine the philosophical foundations of the legal obligation to give reasons in English law. Why are judges sometimes supportive of the imposition of a duty to give reasons and sometimes not? What is it about the context of life and death health care allocation problems that makes it unsuitable in their view for such a duty; and is this stance justified? What is it to give a reason for a decision? I examine Frederick Schauer’s account of reason-giving in terms of generalisation and commitment and I suggest that it provides an overstated account of what giving a reason commits one to. I go on to examine an idea of judicial creation: that where value judgements are “inexpressible” there is a strong reason not to impose a duty to give reasons on to public bodies. The strongest case for a duty to give reasons is in terms of the value of respect for citizens. I argue that there is nothing in the very nature of reason-giving that ought to preclude the imposition of such a duty in this context, but concede that there is a serious danger of legalism that could result in a hamstringing of health care decision-making. It is up to judges and lawyers to seek to avoid this danger. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Recent Acquisitions, 2020–21Bridget Whittle and Kenneth BlackwellThe previous general update of acquisitions appeared in Russell in n.s. 39 (winter 2019): 188–90. The new listing covers items numbered 1,824 to 1,839, plus an addition to 840, with the latest items arriving in December 2021. Largely due to the Covid-19 pandemic, this update is smaller than usual as fewer items were received or available. Several items were received from other institutions (...) and through the generosity of researchers, to whom McMaster Library is very grateful. Internet prints are from the Hon. Russell Archivist. The following abbreviations are used: L(s). or l(s). = letter(s); X. = image copies of any kind.correspondenceArlott, John L. from BR, 1951, re “Rewards of Philosophy” (C48.06) and a cricket book for Conrad. X. Internet print. rec. acq. 1,831.Bell, A. S. L. from BR, 1967. Re Alys Russell’s l. to Haldane. X. Courtesy of Nicholas Bell. rec. acq. 1,827.Cambridge Daily News L. from BR requesting they issue a public statement to clarify use of his title, 1945. Re B&R C45.07a. X. Courtesy of Dr. David Harley. rec. acq. 1,824.Cousins, Norman 2 ls. from BR, re quoting History of the World in Epitome and Manchester speech, 1960. X. Courtesy of David Harley. rec. acq. 1,826.Davies, Mansel 19 documents including ls. to BR, from Edith Russell, drafts, and notes re the Bertrand Russell Peace Fund, 1963 and later; and Dora Russell, also cnd, 1958. rec. acq. 1,828.Dewey, John 3 ls., 1 pc to William Ernest Hocking, 1936–40. Re BR at ccny and Harvard. Purchase. rec. acq. 1,836.Duman, R. Douglas L. from BR, 1963. X. Courtesy of David Harley. rec. acq. 1,826.Furtado, Celso 2 ls. from BR re Goldwater, and American war crimes in Vietnam, 1964, 1967. X. Courtesy of Camilo Furado. rec. acq. 1,829.Greene, Graham L. from BR on a Vietnam statement, 1967. X. Internet print. rec. acq. 1,831.Haldane, Richard Burdon (1st Viscount) L. from Alys Russell regarding BR’s imprisonment status, 3 Mar. 1918. X. rec. acq. 1,827.Hocking, William Ernest 2 ls. from BR, 1939–40. Re Wm. James Lectures at Harvard. Purchase. rec. acq. 1,836. —. See also under Dewey, John.Jones, Lief (Lord Rhayader) L. from BR congratulating him on his election victory in North Westmoreland. 1904–05. Purchase. rec. acq. 1,831.Miller, Lawrence E. L. from BR enclosing signed photo (not present), 1963. X. Internet print. rec. acq. 1,831.Modern Forum (Herman Lissauer) L. from BR declining another us lecture tour, 1954. X. Courtesy of David Harley. rec. acq. 1,831.Newnham College Report from BR to extend G. E. M. Anscombe’s scholarship. He comments on her 2 dissertations. X. Courtesy of Rachel Wiseman. Original at Newnham. rec. acq. 1,831.Post, Stanley Deverin L. from BR, 1962. X. Internet print. rec. acq. 1,824.Russell, Frank L. to Bill/Bull, 1902. Promises to send him a copy of his speech. X. Internet print. Courtesy of Ruth Derham. rec. acq. 1,824.Russell, Patricia L. to Emrys Hughes, ed. of Forward, 1945. Re the war and peace settlement. X. Courtesy of National Library of Scotland. Added to rec. acq. 840.Ryckman, Mr. L. from BR, 1923. X. Internet print. rec. acq. 1,831.Schrödinger, Erwin L. from BR. X. Internet print. Online at U. of Vienna Library. rec. acq. 1,830.Silberstein, Ludwick 3ls. from BR,2in 1918, third in 1941. Silberstein had translated Problems into Polish, 1913. X. Internet print. rec. acq. 1,831.Silverstein, Louis L. from BR regarding nuclear weapons and the Kennedy administration, 1961. X. Internet print. rec. acq. 1,831.Spencer, Herbert L. to Lady Amberley, 1869. Re Spencer’s visit to Rodborough. Purchase. rec. acq. 1,833.Stetler, Jr., Russell Dearnley 20 ls. from BR; 30 from R. Schoenman, C. Farley, P. Wood; 1963–65. On opposing the Vietnam War. X. Donation of Russ Stetler. rec. acq. 1,838.Thirring, Hans 11 ls. from BR, 1 to BR, 1952–62. X. Internet print. Online at U. of Vienna Library. rec... (shrink)

Jacob Vernet (1698-1789) was the most important and influential Genevan pastor of his day, successively holding the posts of Professor of Belles-Lettres (1739) and of Theology (1756) at the city's Acad mie. A 'liberal' theologian, he had personal contacts with several of the leading philosophes, all of which turned sour after a time. This book describes Vernet's contacts with Montesquieu, d'Alembert, Voltaire and Rousseau. It also investigates a charge made repeatedly by his enemies, namely that he was a hypocrite who (...) disguised his real beliefs. Vernet's religious and philosophical opinions are thus reviewed as expressed in his major works, Trait de la v rite de la religion chr tienne, Instruction chr tienne and Lettres critiques d'un voyageur anglais. The connection between Vernet's ideas and the social and political situation in his native Geneva is also studied in depth. The pastor's relations with Montesquieu have often been seen as a cause for congratulation, for he edited the first edition of De l'Esprit des lois, but a close reading of Montesquieu's correspondence shows that this episode was far from being an unqualified success. Similarly, Vernet's contacts with Rousseau give pause for thought: the relevant evidence that he was on occasion somewhat devious in his dealings with the great author is reviewed comprehensively. Particular attention is given to Vernet's relations with Voltaire. In 1760 the pastor was vilified in the second of the Dialogues chr tiens, accused of greed and dishonesty. But did Voltaire actually write the second Dialogue? If not, who did? These intriguing questions are discussed in detail, special attention being given to Vernet's own essays of self-justification, the Lettre Monsieur le Premier Sindic(1760) and M moire Mr. le Premier Sindic (1766, both of which are reproduced in appendices. Jacob Vernet's long life and many works give a fascinating insight into the problems and inconsistencies of liberal Protestantism during the various stages of the Enlightenment. (shrink)

Since the poem of Sappho, which was first published as No. 7 of the Oxyrhynchus series, has been the object of a good deal of attention and ingenuity , it is perhaps not too early to publish a number of new readings, the result of repeated examinations of the papyrus , that may provide a surer foundation for future attempts at reconstruction. I have submitted my suggestions to Professor Hunt, who does not reject them , and I have to thank (...) him and Mr. H. I. Bell, of the Department of MSS., for the readiness of their help whenever and under whatever form I made appeal to it. But, of course, neither of them is in any way committed to any of my readings or deductions. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Lessons of TheoryJay PariniOne does not have to look far these days to find someone bashing literary theory, and in some respects it deserves it. Joseph Epstein, for one, has almost never tired of picking away at the motives of those who engage in literary theory: “The major impulse of theory was suspicion,” he has said. “In this regard theory gave that portion of the professoriat who came (...) through the sixties unfulfilled, and those younger professors—women, ethnic minorities, homosexuals—who chose to squeeze all they could out of their self-created status of victimhood, a large and lovely outlet for their resentment.” The irony is that one hears in this semi-hysterical cri de coeur the very suspicion that the author is supposedly complaining about. Mr. Epstein, neither female nor gay, apparently feels passed over. Inadvertently, he has become the Victim himself.Literary theory—or just “theory”—has frightened a whole generation of intellectuals into early mental retirement, mostly because they have not the stamina or will to enter into appropriate conversation with their younger colleagues. Perhaps the most unfortunate aspect of the debate over theory has been this extension into the academy of what, in the sixties, used to be called the generation gap; indeed, many of the same dynamics seem to apply, with theorists pitting themselves against all forms of authority. “Never trust anyone under thirty” has been transmogrified into “Never trust anyone who doesn’t appreciate Foucault.”In the seventies, theory moved toward the center of the curriculum at most American graduate schools of literature, and it has remained in place for nearly a quarter of a century. The charge is often heard, perhaps with some justice, that students now spend more time reading [End Page 91] Foucault or Derrida than Shakespeare or Dante, and that this has created an imbalance. But even here, the situation is exaggerated; graduate students do indeed get a heavy dose of theory, yet one sees few undergraduate classrooms in the United States where anything resembling literary theory has displaced the teaching of canonical texts. For the most part what has happened is that the canon has been widened to include texts by previously overlooked writers—usually texts by women or minorities. Such a development hardly threatens to erase or even partially to occlude Homer, Shakespeare, and Milton.The charge that theory is unreadable is, for me, a more important criticism. (There’s a joke I like in this regard: Question: What do you get when you cross a deconstructionist with a mafioso? Answer: An offer you can’t understand.) Jargon has overwhelmed literary criticism to the point where the so-called Common Reader is now fiercely excluded from the conversations that take place in most professional journals and academic conferences, and the consequences of this exclusionary practice are profound. The most obvious effect is that serious literature itself, and thinking about literature and its place in the world, is removed from mainstream consumption. As a result, the general quality of our national discourse—in the arts as well as collateral areas, such as politics—is diminished.This said, I would still argue that an intellectual revolution of sorts has indeed occurred in the last thirty years, and that theory has permanently changed the ways that we—as readers and writers—go about our reading and, yes, our thinking. The peak of the battle over theory passed several years ago; in fact, we seem to have entered a “post-theoretical” moment, and so the time may have arrived for reassessing some of the lessons of theory. This “revolution” is pretty much a literal one: a turning of the wheel. But the wheel has been turning for a long time. Our ways of reading have been challenged almost continuously from the beginning of this century, when the belles-lettres style of criticism popular just after the Great War was dislodged by the philologists, and the philologists were attacked by the literary historians, and the historians were pushed temporarily to one side in the late forties and early fifties by the New Critics. And so forth. The history of criticism is simply a history of overturnings, or absorptions (I rather... (shrink)

Whether in her life or in her work, however, this difficulty with grieving recurs too often, and too insistently, to be passed off as a matter of artistic temperament. Its presence in her experimental fiction—elegies for her dead brother in To the Lighthouse, the taboo on grieving in Mrs. Dalloway—suggests rather a compulsive need to cope with death. Indeed, while writing To the Lighthouse she had even thought of supplanting "novel" as the name for her books with something like "elegy." (...) Perhaps "abortive elegies for our times" would be more appropriate since she refuses in these books to deal with death and grieving in any direct or open way, and her elegiac impulse—by which writer and reader alike may normally work out grief through formal measures—is delayed, disguised, or thwarted, at best only partially appeased. Her refusal seems to me characteristic of our times, or of that struggle against Victorian odds which helped to make our times. Mark Spilka, professor of English at Brown University and editor of Novel, is the author of works on Lawrence, Dickens, and Kafka. The present essay will be a chapter in his Virginia Woolf's Quarrel with Grieving. See also: "Virginia Woolf's Criticism: A Polemical Preface" by Barbara Currier Bell and Carol Ohmann in Vol. 1, No. 2. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Jean Wyatt THE CELEBRATION OF EROS: GREEK CONCEPTS OF LOVE AND BEAUTY IN TO THE LIGHTHOUSE A voracious reader all her life, Virginia Woolf stored up patterns and images which she naturally wove into the fabric of her novels.1 Integrating literature of the past into her own works was also an affirmation of her belief that "everything comes over again a little differently," as Eleanor says in The Years. (...) Acutely aware of the prevailing fluidity of human life, Virginia Woolf sought a counterbalance in the principle of eternal recurrence. The whole chain of human history forms a "gigantic pattern, momentarily perceptible." It becomes perceptible when elemental forces in human life coincide with the forms of individuals, "making them symbolical, making them representative."3 In Mrs. Ramsay, Virginia Woolf combines a personal portrait of her mother with an evocation of eternal life forces in the "symbolical outline" (p. Ill) of Aphrodite, goddess of love, beauty and marriage, that Mrs. Ramsay irradiates. Events, too, can be "symbolical, and therefore perhaps permanent," in the words of Bernard in The Waves, when they reflect the continuity of human experience. The dinner party in To the Lighthouse contains ritual elements, reminders that it is one in a series of communal feasts. The search for truth in the midst of human pleasures, by means of human love, recalls one such banquet in particular, the Symposium.'' The central concerns of the Symposium are those of To the Lighthouse: striving for knowledge through love; the desire to create that beauty arouses; the paradox of the eternal in the midst of the transitory. The figures and patterns of Greek literature were part of Virginia Woolf's mental formation. She began learning Greek at King's College in 1897, at the age of fifteen.6 For the next few years, Greek was her chief refuge from a stifling Victorian society. From 10:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. every day she read Greek: Homer, Aeschylus, Euripides, all of Sophocles, Plato. Twice a week she met for Greek lessons, first 160 Jean WyATT161 with Clara Pater, then with Janet Case. Her letters speak of Greek as "the greatest of comforts to me" (April, 1900), "my daily bread, and a keen delight to me" (June, 1900); it "has so much attraction for me... that I don't want to do anything else" (February, 1905).8 A diary entry from 1924 shows how Greek "worked its way" into her life. Upon meeting a herd of cattle, "I waved my stick and stood at bay; and thought of Homer.... some mimic battle. Grizzle grew more and more insolent and excited and skirmished about yapping. Ajax? That Greek, for all my ignorance, has worked its way into me." Seeing Grizzle as Ajax is not different in kind from transforming Mrs. Ramsay into Aphrodite, Mr. Carmichael into Poseidon. Greek was in the forefront of Virginia Woolf's mind in 1924 because she had been reading Greek steadily since 1922 in preparation for the article "On Not Knowing Greek." "The amount of reading... that went into the production of that essay... was remarkable," comments Quentin Bell. She published the essay in 1925, the year she began To the Lighthouse. "On Not Knowing Greek" shows that Virginia Woolf knew the Symposium well: she discusses it for four pages, not with the analytical lens of a literary critic, but with loving familiarity. She first read the Symposium when she was about sixteen, but her intimacy with it suggests that she must have read it more than once. At the center of the Symposium is Diotima's doctrine: man has to work through a series of human loves to arrive at the eternal. Lily pursues a similar quest for knowledge through love. She loves Mrs. Ramsay, but, unable to satisfy her love on a personal level, casts about for a way of reaching "the spirit in her, the essential thing" (p. 76). She finally finds a way of loving that takes her to the essence of things when, ten years after Mrs. Ramsay's death, she sees and loves a Mrs. Ramsay who transcends the individual to become the form of love and beauty. To understand the... (shrink)

Good reasoning can lead to success; bad reasoning can lead to catastrophe. Yet, it's not obvious how we reason, and why we make mistakes. This new book by one of the pioneers of the field, Philip Johnson-Laird, looks at the mental processes that underlie our reasoning. It provides the most accessible account yet of the science of reasoning.

This book aims to pinpoint the connection feelings have with behaviour - a connection that, while clear, has never been fully explained. Following William James, Laird argues that feelings are not the cause of behavior but rather its consequences; the same goes for behaviour and motives and behaviour and attitudes. He presents research into feelings across the spectrum, from anger to joy to fear to romantic love, that support this against-the-grain view. Laird discusses the problem of common sense, (...) self-perception theory, the association between feelings and higher cognitive processes, and also the literature on facial expression, posture, and gaze. (shrink)

John Laird was a Scottish philosopher who specialised in metaphysics and moral philosophy. In this early work, which was originally published in 1920, Laird set out to analyse some of the more perplexing problems of philosophical realism. The text includes a brief survey of philosophical realism at the beginning and critical notes throughout. This book will be of value to anyone with an interest in the works of Laird and the history of philosophy.

A collaboration between distinguished physicists and philosophers of physics, this important anthology surveys the deep implications of Bell's nonlocality theorem.

In this account of the way in which we understand music, Laird Addis explains how sounds can have such profound effects on those listening to them.

John Laird was a Scottish philosopher who specialised in metaphysics and moral philosophy. In this book, which was first published in 1929, Laird provides a detailed analysis of the philosophical nature of value. The text begins with a discussion of the main definitions of value, before going through a more detailed examination of the various applications of value in turn. This book will appeal to anyone with an interest in value and the history of philosophy.

Van der Henst argues that the theory of mental models lacks a pragmatic component. He fills the gap with the notion that reasoners draw the most relevant conclusions. We agree, but argue that theories need an element of “nondeterminism.” It is often impossible to predict either what will be most relevant or which particular conclusion an individual will draw.

This volume deals with a variety of moments in the history of mechanics when conflicts arose within one textual tradition, between different traditions, or ...

I Introduction In recent years there have arisen from several quarters, even within analytic philosophy itself, various challenges to the "positivist"...